Today
by mastermoriarty1895
Summary: Three years since Sherlock fell and John visits his grave every year, except this one. Major Character Death(s)! Johnlock. And, once more, I suck at summaries. M, just to be safe.


**Yep, so, this one sucks even worse, I believe. But, it's 7:30 in the morning so, I'm done. For tonight  
(this morning?). I hope. Sorry for the weird way it's written. Like I said, 7:30 in the morning.**

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Today

It was January 15th, 2012, the day that changed everything. They day that took one man's new found happiness and ripped it away, leaving him a broken mess. This day, cloudy, but not raining, served as a reminder every year that nothing lasts forever, that words will always be left unsaid, and that you should cherish what you have when you have it. This is the day that Sherlock Holmes died.

This is the day that Dr. John Watson wakes up early, takes a shower, eats breakfast, and does everything exactly the same as he does for the other 364 days of the year. This is the day that he smiles and jokes and laughs at work. This is the day that he kisses Mrs. Hudson's cheek when he gets home and requests a cup of tea, to which is always replied 'I'm not your housekeeper' even though the tea is always brought to him.

This is the day that John Watson watches crap telly and eats Chinese takeout in the flat that he is now the sole owner of. This is the day that he receives three drunken texts from Harry and promptly ignores them all. She has a new girlfriend to take care of her and it is no longer his responsibility, at least, that's what Greg told him last week.

Yes, Dr. Watson still assists on cases for the inspector, though he's nowhere near as good as Sherlock was. Yes, he still rents the flat at 221B Baker Street. Yes, he still works at the clinic, part time. And yes, he still goes to visit Sherlock's grave every year.

And that's exactly what he should be doing right now, except, he isn't. Right now he's pulling out a notepad and a pen. Right now he's walking to Sherlock's old room, notebook and pen in hand. Right now, he should be moving on. It's been three years now. He should be moving on, but he's not.

He acts like he is. He smiles, laughs, jokes. He even had a girlfriend, though that only lasted a week. He goes to work and comes home. He misses the unpredictable routines. He misses the cases. He misses the adrenaline, the rush of a new lead or of being cornered in a fight. He misses the deductions that flew from Sherlock's mouth, always right, always. He misses everything. But he misses Sherlock most of all.

He doesn't quite know _when_ it happened, but it did. He fell in love with Sherlock Holmes. He didn't notice it until Sherlock was gone, though. He didn't realize that he needed the man so much. But he did. He needed Sherlock, and he couldn't have him.

So, today Dr. Watson wasn't going to visit Sherlock's grave. Today here wasn't going to bring flowers. Today he wasn't going to sit on the cold ground behind the headstone and talk to Sherlock like he was still there.

No, today Dr. Watson was going to sit on the edge of Sherlock's bed. Today he would write notes. A note to Mrs. Hudson. A note to Mike. A note to Greg. A note to Sarah. A note to Molly. Even a note to Mycroft. He'd write until he had nothing left to say.

Dr. John Watson would place those notes on the bedside table, next to the lamp. He'd then open the drawer of the table and pull out Sherlock's gun. He wouldn't use his own gun, no. Sherlock had once used this gun to save his life, now John would use it to end it.

He'd then pull himself into the center of the bed, so that when he fell back his head would hit the pillow. He smiled, thinking of the right after Sherlock died that he had slept in this bed. It'd be like coming home, wouldn't it?

So today, Dr. John Watson will put that gun to his head. Today, Dr. John Watson will pull that trigger with a smile on his face. Today he will not merely visit Sherlock. Today he will be with him forever. Today, Dr. John Watson dies.

._-*-_.

Today is January 15th, 2012. Today, a lone man waits by a gravestone. Today, he waits for the man who means everything to come see him. Today is the day he tells him he's alive. Today's the day he will kiss him and hold him and never let go. Today he will apologize as he watches his doctor cry. Today is the day he will make things okay again. Today is the day Sherlock Holmes lives.

Today he waits beside his headstone for hours. Today he waits until the sun is set. Today he wonders where his doctor is. Today he rushes home. He rushes to 221B Baker Street, residence of John Watson. Today he rings the buzzer, twice. He receives no answer. Today he picks the lock of the flat he once shared with his doctor.

Today he runs up the stairs. Today he bursts through the door of the flat. Today he sees no one. He will rush to John's room and knock on the door until its hinges break. Today he will not find his doctor there.

Today he will walk down the hall, wondering where John could be. Today he will see his old door open, just a crack. Today he will push it open.

Today Sherlock Holmes will scream. Today he will cry and curse and beg. Today he will blame himself and Moriarty and everyone for not noticing the signs. He would have noticed this about to happen. But Sherlock Holmes wasn't there to stop it. So today, he will numbly walk to the bed.

Today he will lay down beside his doctor. Today he will brush the hair from his doctor's face. Today he will kiss him, softly, like hi should have done ages ago. Today Sherlock Holmes will not write a note. He will be message enough.

Today Sherlock Holmes will pull his doctor close and whisper to him words of comfort and 'I love you's. Today Sherlock Holmes will gently tug the gun from John's grasp and place it on his own temple. Today he will cry and pull the trigger, one last 'I love you' faded on his lips.

Today Sherlock Holmes and John Watson died.

._-*-_.

Today is January 16th, 2012. Today there is a crowd of people surrounding a gravesite where two bodies lie, intertwined forever. Today they mourn the loss of two of the greatest men to ever live.

Today Mycroft Holmes reads his letter in his office. Today he does not notice when a tear tracks down his cheek. Today he is not the British Government. Today, he is a man who just lost his brother and a friend. Today he will mourn.

Today Molly Hooper will read her letter in her flat. Today she will sob as she reads the last words John Watson had to say to her. Today she will mourn the loss of her two best friends. Today she is not a shy but endearing morgue attendant. Today she is a broken hearted young girl.

Today Mrs. Hudson will read her letter in the boys' flat. Today she will sniffle and cry, her silence more deafening than any wail. Today she will mourn the loss of her sons, even though they were not her own. Today she is not their landlady or their housekeeper. Today she is a mother crying for her sons.

Today Mike Stamford will read his letter at St. Bart's. Today he will shake his head and wonder why the world is so cruel. Today he is not a great doctor. Today he is a man who just lost two good friends. Today he will not see any patients. Today he will mourn the men whose lives he changed forever.

Today Sarah Sawyer will read her letter at her desk at the clinic. Today she will cry and say Dr. Watson will not be returning whenever she is asked about him. Today she will mourn the loss of the man she loved, even if he didn't love her the same. Today she is not the best doctor the clinic has. Today she is a mess because she will never see the man she loved again.

Today Gregory Lestrade will read his letter at Scotland Yard. Today he will opened a new bottle of scotch and take his first drink in a year. Today he will mourn the loss of the two greatest detectives he'd ever known, even if they could be arrogant pricks at times. Today he is not Scotland Yard's finest. Today he is a man who is heartbroken over the loss of his best friends.

Today Sherlock Holmes and John Watson were laid to rest in each other's arms. Today the world mourned the loss. Today a candle was lit in the window of Angelo's Café. Today people cried and mourned. But today, Dr. John Watson and Detective Sherlock Holmes were reunited to spend eternity in each other's arms.

Today, they are happy.

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**So, I think we've established that, not only does my writing get crappier the less sleep I get, and that I shouldn't be allowed anywhere near my computer past midnight, we've also established that I am total crap at happy endings. Cheers! Reviews are on my Christmas list! :) (Even if it's just to tell me how much it sucks.) But constructive criticism is adored. :)**


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